Chapter CLVI: Duty and happiness
Talia’s days at the Great Palace were defined by quiet routine. She had grown accustomed to the grandeur of gilded halls and marble staircases, to the weight of silks and the murmurs of courtiers. Yet, every time she felt the gaze of the Crown Prince upon her, a wave of unease and confusion washed over her. It wasn’t fear, not exactly—more a disquieting awareness. She had seen Ikkar from afar, watched him carry himself with the unmistakable bearing of a future king, confident and bold. He was his father's son, a leader already in the making.
But when their eyes met, there was something else. A spark. And it unsettled her deeply.
She avoided him when she could, focusing on her duties with Kira, Mahir, and Dayan. Yet, even when she tried to block him from her thoughts, she found herself recalling the intensity of his gaze, the momentary pause in time when their eyes had locked during the ball. She reminded herself of her place—a servant, she thought sternly. The Dragon Queen’s handmaiden had no business thinking of princes.
One afternoon, she sat in the shade of the garden’s willow trees, embroidering a new cushion for Kira’s chambers. The air was warm, the hum of bees mingling with the distant shouts of boys training in the courtyard. Mahir’s laughter rang out, sharp and clear.
“Talia,” a voice said, deep and familiar. Her needle slipped, pricking her finger. She looked up to find Ikkar standing a few paces away, his dark hair ruffled by the wind. His eyes, so much like his father’s, bore into hers.
“Your Highness,” she said, bowing her head and quickly hiding her injured finger.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” His tone was polite, but there was an underlying tension she couldn’t ignore. He seemed out of place in that moment—not the assured prince but a young man uncertain of how to bridge the gap between them.
“I was just finishing this,” she said, indicating the embroidery, hoping he would take it as a dismissal.
He didn’t move. Instead, he shifted closer, just enough that she could see the curve of his jaw clench, the way his brows drew together. “We weren’t introduced,” he began, almost hesitantly, “you’re my siblings caretaker, right?”
Talia’s heart pounded. She kept her eyes on the needlework, the familiar rhythm a small comfort. “Yes, Your Highness. I am..”
He exhaled, the breath carrying frustration. “Welcome,” he said finally. “I hope you feel at home here.”
Before she could respond, Kira bounded over, breaking the tension with her exuberance. Talia quickly excused herself, grateful for the distraction, and led Kira back to the inner chambers, leaving Ikkar watching after them, his expression unreadable.
***
That evening, Ikkar found his father in the royal library, a place lined with tomes both ancient and new, their leather spines cracked with age or polished with care. Alaric stood near the large window, looking out at the courtyard where the last streaks of sunlight kissed the stone.
“Father,” Ikkar said, his voice low.
Alaric turned, eyes softened by age but still as sharp as ever. The Dragon King’s presence was imposing yet warm, a testament to years of battle tempered by love and fatherhood.
“Ikkar,” Alaric greeted. “What brings you here?”
For a moment, Ikkar hesitated. He had come seeking answers, but the words felt tangled in his chest. “Do you ever think about whether duty and happiness can exist together?”
Alaric’s expression shifted, thoughtful. He gestured for Ikkar to sit, taking a seat himself in the chair opposite. The flickering light of the lanterns cast shadows that danced on the walls.
“I’ve thought about it more times than I can count,” Alaric admitted. “When I was younger, before I met your mother, I thought duty was all there was. That my life was meant to be carved from iron, unyielding and cold. Happiness was shallow, flickering... Unreliable.”
“But then you met Mother,” Ikkar said, a hint of wonder in his tone. He’d heard stories of how his parents’ love defied expectations, how they had weathered storms and battles, betrayals and reunions.
Alaric’s lips curled into a fond smile. “Yes. Your mother changed everything. She taught me everything I could possibly know about love. to find warmth in a life forged in suffering. But it wasn’t easy. We had to fight for it, time and time again.”
Ikkar’s gaze dropped to his hands. “What if… I found something worth fighting for? Even if it doesn’t align with what’s expected of me?”
Silence filled the room, deep and knowing. Alaric studied his son, recognizing the flicker of longing, the struggle between heart and duty. He reached out, placing a steady hand on Ikkar’s shoulder. “You are your mother’s son as much as you are mine. You carry our blood, our fire. If there is something you believe in, truly believe in, then you must decide if it’s worth the fight. But remember, every choice you make has a cost. As a prince, as my heir… Some choices do come at a great expense.”
Ikkar met his father’s eyes, the weight of those words sinking into him. He thought of Talia’s hesitant smile, the way she seemed to hold the sunlight in her hair, the quiet strength she carried. He knew the risk, knew that falling for someone like her would shake the foundation of his carefully mapped-out future.
“But do you...” he asked, a small, hopeful edge to his voice, “do you think it was worth it for you?”
Alaric’s eyes gleamed with an emotion so deep it was almost overwhelming. “More than anything.”
As Ikkar left the library, his thoughts were no clearer, but his resolve was stronger. He might have been born to rule, to carry the burdens of his lineage, but he was also his parents’ son—a product of epic love and relentless determination. And perhaps, he thought, happiness was worth fighting for after all.
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